"A storm is only a storm until a man stands beneath it."
―Westerosi Proverb
…
Lord Borros Baratheon, being a man of no inconsiderable self-regard, had always maintained a firm belief in the natural order of things. The gods, in their wisdom, had dictated that the Baratheons were a family of consequence, that Storm's End was a fortress of indomitable repute, and that he, its lord, was a figure of singular importance. That such a foundation should now be called into question by an invading host of usurpers and smallfolk with poor manners was, he felt, exceedingly unjust.
It had now been five days since Lord Borros had, in a moment of both princely loyalty and self-preservation, had a missive sent to Rhaenyra, informing her of the regrettable presence of her half-brother's army within his lands. He had been assured—though in what vague and highly qualified manner he did not care to admit—that aid would be forthcoming. Yet no dragons had darkened his sky bearing the queen's colours. No armies had arrived at his gates in noble defiance of the enemy.
Instead, what had arrived were the ragged remnants of Bronzegate and Haystack Hall.
Now, his once-imposing fortress swelled with the weary and the wounded, the desperate and the destitute. The noble halls of Storm's End, meant to be filled with knights and banners and the echoes of Baratheon strength, now reverberated instead with the unending murmur of displaced humanity. The scent of unwashed bodies was beginning to overtake even the salt air. The kitchens, accustomed to serving well-fed retainers, were now besieged by mothers with thin-faced children clinging to their skirts. There was no great tragedy in that, of course—so long as one was not compelled to suffer it personally.
As it stood, Borros was suffering most dreadfully.
Seated in his chair—his own, his ancestral, his very fine chair—he bore the latest unpleasantness with all the patience of a man who has been thoroughly exasperated and is now expected to endure just a little more.
"…and now Parchments has fallen, my lord," Ser Merrel was saying. The knight stood before him, helm tucked under his arm, face grim beneath the torchlight. "The survivors say the prince's forces were… measured. The prince took no delight in slaughter, it seems, but he has left the castle garrisoned by his own men."
Borros said nothing, his teeth grinding harder.
"The yards are full," Merrel continued, shifting where he stood, "the lower halls brimming, the kitchens overwhelmed. Storm's End cannot feed this many mouths for long, nor can it hold them at bay. Worse still…" He hesitated.
"Speak plain, gods damn you," Borros snapped.
The knight stiffened, then lowered his voice. "There are whispers, my lord. In the yards, in the corridors. They say the prince's men spared the people of Felwood, that they did not burn Haystack Hall. Some say his mercy is greater than your own."
A deep, slow breath filled Borros's chest, but the heat within him only grew. "Mercy?" he echoed, his voice flat. "Mercy, you say? The mercy of a usurper's whore-son bastard who brings fire to my lands?" He slammed a fist upon the table. "These trembling peasants would sooner bend the knee to a man who marches with dragons at his back than hold fast to their rightful oaths. Have we grown so weak?"
Merrel hesitated. "They are frightened, my lord. Fear makes fools of men."
"Then we shall teach them what it means to be fools," Borros growled. "Any man caught speaking treasonous words shall have his tongue removed. Any who calls for surrender shall be put in the stocks."
The words left his mouth like iron, and Merrel flinched. "My lord, I only meant to—"
"Enough," Borros snapped, waving a hand. "Go, carry out my will, and do not return with more craven tales."
Merrel's jaw tightened, but he bowed stiffly and turned to leave, his boots heavy upon the stone. The other men in the chamber did not speak, but Borros could feel their unease like a weight upon the air.
Cowards, the lot of them.
Borros slumped back into his chair, glaring at the missives upon the table. He could not personally read them, but knew well enough what they said. What had once been promises of security, declarations of loyalty, plans for the defense of his lands—now they were little more than ink upon parchment, meaningless in the face of a force that could not be reasoned with.
Aemond the Destroyer had come to the Stormlands. And he had brought death and misery with him.
The doors swung open again, and this time, it was Ser Harlan—one of his younger knights, breathless and ruddy-faced, which was never a promising sight.
"My lord," the lad gasped. "The enemy has been sighted."
The declaration sucked the warmth from the room.
Borros pushed himself upright. "Where?"
"Just behind the hill to the north. The enemy's forward elements have been seen clearing ground to make camp. The rest of the host ought to be here before nightfall."
A long silence stretched between them, the words settling in; singularly unpleasant things to hear.
Borros exhaled sharply. But before he could speak a loud scuffle outside drew his attention. Moments later, just as he was beginning to wonder what happened, bootfalls hurried toward the chamber. The door burst open again, and another man—a guardsman—strode in, breathless, his face pale.
"My lord! "There is trouble in the yard."
Borros frowned. "What trouble?"
"The levies," the man panted. "Some of the smallfolk—they have taken up arms, demanding surrender."
A cold hand clenched around Borros's chest. "What?"
"They say you will only bring them ruin. They wish to submit to Prince Aemond's mercy."
For a long moment, Borros did not move. Then he was on his feet, his fury bubbling over like a storm-wracked tide. "Ungrateful fucking wretches," he snarled, shoving past the guardsman and marching toward the steps. "I have given them shelter, food, and this is how they repay me?!"
The halls blurred past him, torches casting jagged shadows as he stormed toward the yard. He could already hear the shouting, the cries of discontent. The clash of steel.
Then he was outside.
The yard was a sea of chaos.
A group of men—peasants, fishermen, tradesmen—had taken up whatever weapons they could find, rusty blades and pitchforks and kitchen knives, and they were pressing forward against the castle guards. A guardsman drove his blade through a ragged man in a tattered cloak, only for three more to fall upon him with crude clubs, beating him into the mud.
"Put them down!" Borros bellowed.
Steel met flesh. A peasant woman shrieked as she was run through. But then the dam broke. The smallfolk surged forward, and suddenly it was no longer a skirmish but a massacre in the making.
A guardsman was yanked from his feet, fists and boots falling upon him, caving in his skull. Another woman—half-mad with rage or fear—screamed as she drove a carving knife into a soldier's throat.
It was a frenzy. A madness.
Borros turned, breath quick, hands clenched. His men-at-arms were rushing to bar the doors—
Too late.
A great crash split the air as the wooden doors buckled. The flood came roaring in.
He turned, just in time to see the man.
Burly, bearded, clad in ragged leathers. A makeshift mace in hand.
Borros had time to raise his arms—
Then a sharp pain burst through his skull.
The world spun.
Then darkness.